Various Drabble
by Sherlock-in-the-TARDIS
Summary: Various drabble, ranging from fluff, to slash, to angst  hopefully not  I'll incorperate some 221b format-221 words, first letter of last word b-Making he rating T just as a precautionI don't own any charactersin the t.v. show Sherlock
1. Breathtaking

Sherlock stared at himself in the mirror, scrutinizing his suit, turning this way and that obsessively. John knocked on the open door, wearing a tuxedo.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, facing John

"What?"

"Well, I know that you like it so I decided to skip that part and just ask the second question"

"Oh… than yes, I'm sure" John nodded, and he wasn't lying. The suit was elegant, black with a deep red vest, bothe with intricate designs. Sherlock looked smashing, and it occurred to John that he was probably more nervous about the event than the suit itself. It was just over a month ago that the invitation to the 'First annual Holmes Christmas dinner party'. John agreed to go so Sherlock could have a nice time, and to make sure he actually went. By the time John had left the realm on his thoughts Sherlock was already at the door,

"Come on, let's get this over with"

The Holmes estate was much different than John had imagined. John wasn't sure how he imagined it, disorganized and messy like the flat, perhaps? But it was anyhing but, elegant, large and very put together. They were greeted on the steps by a smug looking Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes . Seeing Sherlock's uncomfortable state, she smiled and said,

"Sherlock, you look breathtaking."


	2. 221b: Boy

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, hands pressed together underneath his chin. John walked in, multiple grocery bags in hand.

"The chip 'n pin machine?"

"… Yes" Sherlock smirked and swung his legs around, placing his feet on the ground and leaning against the back of the sofa. John sighed and walked into the kitchen, placing the bags onto the table. "It was your turn…"

"What?" Sherlock looked up

"To. Buy. The. Milk." John looked back at Sherlock angrily while filling up the fridge.

"Oh. Have you heard anything from Lestrade?"

"No," John rolled his eyes "I'm guessing you haven't either"

"…"

"What."

"Dead boy, 13, It would appear as constriction but something's wrong."

"What?"

"Didn't say, wanted me to come instead," Sherlock jumped up and headed for the door, lifting his coat and scarf off the hook "well, come on then!" he called from the staircase. John sighed,

"Not even time to take my coat off…" He followed Sherlock out the door with a frustrated huff.

"But that wouldn't be any FUN!" Sherlock said, John noting in the back of his mind that he sounded like an overeager child. Sherlock hailed a cab and climbed in, John following. The ride was unnervingly silent, both staring out the window. The cab stopped, Sherlock leapt out , running to see the dead boy.


	3. Silence

A/N: My first angsty fic! And yes, I know it's not that good but bear with me!

Sherlock Holmes held his head in his hands, alone in 221b Baker Street. Light came only from the staircase, and even that was flickering. Sherlock sat in the chilled kitchen, not reacting to the sound of cars passing, or even police sirens. The entire world was irrelevant and stupid. Nothing could help him, no serial killings or opportunity to mock Anderson. Any case would be pointless, Sherlock would stand there and deduce, but all he would really be thinking about was the empty space beside him. Sherlock could hear it now, the emptiness and silence screaming at him. The lack of the telly blaring or something being cooked or even the occasional turn of a page. 221b was soundless other than the ragged breathing of Sherlock Holmes. His Blackberry lit up the room, buzzing briefly. The screen showed a simple notification;

**New message from blocked number**

Sherlock slammed him hand on the phone, unintentionally opening the message.

**From: Blocked**

**Enjoy the fire**

**-M**

Sherlock let out a tortured sob and his head sunk to the table, arms loosely wrapped around it. There was no one now, no one he cared about, no one worth his time, nothing worth his time. Nothing worth anything at all, nothing deserved a place in his mind. It should be deleted, all of it. Sherlock needed to delete the world from his mind. And he knew there was only one was of doing that. To delete himself from the world.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bathtub, dressed as if he were going out, the edge of his coat dipping into the water. He slipped into the warm water and curled his legs together to fit the size, laying face up. The detective stared at the ceiling before shutting his eyes and slipping under water. It was a world of darkness and peace. It was the first time in Sherlock's life that his mind wasn't clear. HE was thinking the thoughts of an average man. After a few minutes his lungs started to burn in a need for oxygen, but he refused the need to come up for air. Instead, he took in a large, choking , gulp of water. His eyes flew open to see the small, watery world where he was about to die. His vision soon began to fade as Sherlock's body began to weaken. The burning in his lungs began to fade, the need for oxygen drifting from his mind.

And then the population of consulting detectives returned to zero.


End file.
